


And I can't think straight

by craple



Category: Common Law
Genre: Angst, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of their weekly therapy, Dr. Ryan stops Wes short, calls him a martyr once everyone is out of sight. Wes thinks it’s about Alex. It’s really not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I can't think straight

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhh my god, I fell in love with this series at first sight. _This is love!_ I mean, like, seriously, how _perfect_ can these two be? I can't get enough of the sass, urgh.
> 
> Anyway; enjoy! ;)

At the end of their weekly therapy, Dr. Ryan stops Wes short, calls him a martyr once everyone is out of sight.

For a few seconds, Wes does nothing but blink. He blinks twice, thinks that her tone is carefully blank – as blank as her face is, set in a politely un-judgmental expression – blinks thrice, assumes it’s about his living arrangement or how hard it is for him to let go.

Wes is not worried about Alex anymore. Not so hang-up, seeing that it _has_ been nearly a year. She’s a big girl and she _has_ moved on, and he’s in the process of buying a new house now.

Or, well, _apartment_ might be the right word for it. Luxurious one, the one closest to where he works. A penthouse at the top of the building, maybe, he can build his own garden right from the start. It’s not such a bad idea.

Travis has approved of this whole-heartedly, told him it would have to have a big flat-screen TV and a large comfortable couch.

So Wes tells Dr. Ryan about the penthouse, about Alex. Her brow raises high, comically so, and she is totally judging him now, albeit not on purpose. It’s a basic human instinct. Wes can’t blame her.

“I wasn’t talking about _Alex_ , precisely,” says Dr. Ryan. It’s final and contemplative and confused at the same time, like it hasn’t occurred to her Alex is the focus here. About Wes being a martyr, which is. He’s really not.

Instead, she asks, “Does it really have a flat screen and a large couch though? Your penthouse,” to which Wes lies “No,” before he can really think.

Dr. Ryan’s eyes narrow, the way it does when she knows he’s lying. And, cop or not, it must have written perfectly clear on his face – if not his body language, shifting guiltily under her scrutiny. Perfect imitation of a fife year old caught taking candies out of the jar.

But, she doesn’t comment. Her face does something complicated Wes can’t quite decipher. Wes takes that as his cue to leave.

\--

More cases than they have ever had in a year piles up a week to Valentine’s Day.

It always does, this time of the year, which confuses Wes even more. Though, if he does think about it very, very carefully – and only after his sixth glass of Red, _doubled_ – it _does_ make sense, in a way.

Valentine’s Day is for the lovebirds. For couples in a long healthy relationship, married couples or newlywed couples, couples that have been together for decades, with or without the spark they used to have. It’s a good excuse for candle-lights dinner in a fancy restaurant.

Romantic movies in a dark secluded space, perhaps; leaning into each other’s warmth, make out a bit without really having sex. Be romantic and thoughtful of your partner, showing affection without inner purpose other than to simply _listen_.

There was this one case, three years back, where they caught a ten-year married couple breaking into a closed planetarium to gaze at the stars.

It was raining at the time, but the stars in the planetarium shone bright still. Mr. Gilmore had been arrested for breaking-and-entering for a night, since the planetarium is his sister’s, who changed her mind about pressing charges.

Wes assumes it probably had more to do with the screwed make-up and ripped undergarments; Travis’ unbuttoned jeans and swollen-kissed lips, than the fact that it was _her brother_.

Mrs. Gilmore had been _ecstatic_ , practically screaming _“I LOVE YOU LET’S MAKE BABIES”_ in front of her husband’s cell, ignoring the sleep-deprived officer of the law sitting fifty inches away. It was adorable as it was disgusting. Wes has conflicted emotions concerning that case in particular.

Anyway, the captain is not happy of the way their obey-thy-law citizens suddenly turn into brainless teenagers every February the 14th.

He makes a joke about making a horror movie based on the nightmare of cases, with the date _as_ the title. _‘Valentine’s Day’_ has already been used, once, and so has _‘My Bloody Valentine’_. It gets more worrying when the joke leads to copyright issue – because _that_ means the captain really is considering on making a movie.

For Travis though. Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean chocolates and flowers – it means Travis dragging Wes to every club available within twenty miles radius, hitting on both women _and_ men, as long as they’re pretty to fuck.

Dancing to the music tantalizingly, his hips moving almost sinuously in tight jeans hanging low _below_ his waist, and Wes doesn’t look. At all.

_Never_.

\--

It’s a surprise when Captain Sutton tells them to go home.

There are cases, robberies and possible murders, a raped girl and underage drunk teenager bumping into the wrong people tonight. Valentine’s Day is for the lovebirds, it’s supposed to _harmless_.

Usually, broken-hearted people tend to disagree, which leads to the cases _sitting on Wes’ desk_. Wes is more surprised when Travis hasn’t dragged him kicking and bitching into several different clubs after the announcement.

Just, grabs Wes’ shoulder. Asks if he can spend the night at Wes’, _pretty please_. Startling blue eyes wide and hopeful, looking straight into Wes’ eyes as if he isn’t momentarily dumbfounded and absolutely pliant under Travis’ hand already. Wes’ throat constricts, his tongue heavy, the inside of his mouth suddenly dry.

When he nods, Travis’ face brightens like Wes has given him the world.

(He probably would, if he could.)

“Oh man, you totally should buy me a chocolate tomorrow okay. Or maybe tonight. I want to wake up to the smell of chocolate all over my face, Wes, I _want_.” Travis moans happily. Back arching as he stretches, the sliver of his skin underneath his shirt distracts Wes from the traffic and nearly gets them all killed.

Wes snorts dismissively. “You’re hijacking my place. I am _not_ buying you chocolates for Valentine’s Day, Travis.”

\--

The next day, Wes wakes up to Travis’ stubble on his stomach, rubbing this way and that, smearing the expensive chocolate Wes bought for him the night after he passed out. Wes kicks him out of bed, listens to his voice moaning _obscenely_ about Wes being _a good boy_ , because he’s Wes.

Plus, Travis has done a remarkable job on giving him a prominent morning-wood.

Also because he smells lightly of the flowers Wes bought for Travis every Valentine’s Day, but Wes tries not to think of that when he gets into the shower.

Muffles his voice with a towel as his hand slips around his cock. Thinks of the way Travis’ stubble feels against his skin, how it feels raw and Wes is still hot from it – the rough texture, the red burns on his navel – until he finally comes harder than he ever has in weeks.

\--

On their next appointment with the therapy club, Travis chatters happily of their, _his_ , Valentine’s Day. That Wes bought him the chocolate he asked for, gave him flowers like it’s a brand new car instead of something Wes gave to him every year.

Everyone beams as if Wes has finally found it in him not be an asshole on certain days. Which, he _hasn’t._

Dr. Ryan stops him again to _‘talk’_ at the end of the meeting. This time, though, she asks Travis to stay too.

“This needs to stop.” Dr. Ryan announces, loud and clear. It’s her Alpha Male, I-take-no-shit voice, figurative on the ‘Male’ part.

Now, it’s common knowledge that Wes and Travis rarely agree on something, going as far as to voice it loudly in public, but this time, they both share a look of confusion, turn at the Doc in perfect sync, it’s eerie.

It’s also common knowledge that Dr. Ryan rarely angry, almost _never_. So it’s a surprise when she glares at them wholeheartedly, the iceberg _melts_.

“What I mean,” she presses, heatedly. “Is that Travis needs to stop asking something when he wants your attention, and you need to stop _giving_ Travis everything he wants. It is not healthy, and certainly not good for a further, more intimate relationship than simple police partnership.”

At their dumbfounded silence, Dr. Ryan sighs. Patiently, heavily so. Travis looks like a kicked puppy Wes wants to keep.

“Four minutes until the room is taken by the yoga class. I suggest you two talk this out before then,” says Dr. Ryan, not unkindly. She pats their shoulders encouragingly, then strolls silently away.

Travis refuses to look at Wes. It makes something in his chest to – to _hurt_. Wes _needs_ to say something. He opens his mouth, to say –

“I’m sorry,” Travis blurts, quickly. He looks at Wes. “I mean, she’s right, I shouldn’t have I mean, you’re _buying me stuff_ , Wes. Expensive stuff I shouldn’t – I _can’t_ have. We’re not even. Like, we’re _friends_ , it’s supposed to be equal. And even if we’re in a relationship, I don’t want you to just – I want us to be equals as well, and this is – “

“I’ll do anything for you,” is what he says. Travis’ eyes widen. Wes feels hurt. “I thought you knew that.” And his voice comes out lower, more offended than he intends to.

Violently, Travis starts shaking his head. “No, no, of course – of _course_ I know that Wes I mean, we’re _partners_ for _five years_! I know you, and you know me, better than anyone else! It’s just,” he pauses, sighs. He looks tired.

Wes has the stupid urge to cuddle-attack Travis to the ground, just to see how it goes.

He continues, “You have to tell me if I overstep, alright? I don’t want you doing things or buying things you don’t want for me.”

And Travis is scuffling his feet, looking like the very definition of a kicked puppy. It’s adorable, endearing, and everything Wes _wants_. What Wes _aches_ for.

Standing up, Wes leans closer into Travis’ space. Breathes him in and tangles their fingers. “If I tell you I want to, say, hypothetically, _kiss_ you,” Wes murmurs slowly, cocks his head with a wicked grin. “Would you let me?”

Travis – lustful, _experienced in bed_ Travis – honest to god _stammers_ and _flushes_. It’s a pretty sight Wes would love to see again, preferably in bed. Though he supposes he is not opposed to _any_ place as long as their pants are down.

So, Travis kisses him. Long and deep and filthy. He tilts Wes’ head to the side, slips his tongue between the dry chapped skins of Wes’ lips, moans into Wes’ mouth like it’s the best thing he’s ever had.

“Waited – I’ve waited a long time for this, for _you_ ,” breathes Travis between kisses, one hand grasps the tenting erection through Wes’ trousers firmly, teeth capturing Wes’ lower lip to make Wes _keen_.

\--

The yoga instructor finds them fifteen minutes later, hands down each other’s pants, moaning like they’re in the middle of a very amateur porn-making. She charges them for public indecency.

Captain Sutton is not pleased.


End file.
